


Mind Like a Machine

by Chiicheo



Category: Danganronpa: Hopeful Mayhem
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, no beta we die like men, pregame z oh boy, z backstory spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiicheo/pseuds/Chiicheo
Summary: z backstory lol!!!!!
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	Mind Like a Machine

**Author's Note:**

> if youre an alive person get THEFUCK OUT THERE ARE SPOILERS!!!!!! HERE GRGRGR

\--

It's 3:00 pm. School is over. As such, Ezekiel goes through his usual post-school routine.

Open locker. Retrieve backpack. Say goodbye to the teachers in the hallway. Go outside. Sit by a tree.

Alone.

He's been alone for as long as he can remember. Ezekiel can't recall the last time he's ever had a friend.

It doesn't necessarily bother him, though. 

...At least, that's what he tells himself. Loneliness gets tiring after a while. He knows this all too well. A solid grade point average and near-guaranteed college scholarship can't fill that hole. 

However, it's fine. Everything is fine, he reassures himself. Every goddamn time. Don't let your emotions get the better of you, Cardoso. Think of your mind like a machine. Machines have every movement perfectly calculated and thought-out before they even make them. They are flawless creations.

And that's what Ezekiel Cardoso is. Flawless.

On the contrary, every machine has its faults. They are manmade, after all. Every machine is bound to fuck up at some point. They can't be perfect all the time. All it takes is one little cog in the machine to malfunction, and everything stops working properly and it makes it impossible to think straight and—

...

...maybe he should start walking home. That sounds like a good idea.

Ezekiel usually spends a brief amount of time in the school courtyard, putzing around while reading the occasional book or doing homework. Regardless, he always makes it home at 4:00 pm sharp. Worrying his parents would be the last thing Cardoso wants.

His parents. They're respectable people with a respectable outcome. They have a respectable house, and a respectable attitude towards life. He isn't quite sure what he would do without them.

He always appreciates things when they're in a nice, neat order. Every day he makes sure to exit the school building at exactly 3:00 pm; school ends at 2:50. He gets home at 4:00. His room is always organized. He always makes sure to keep his appearance neat and clean. 

After checking the time on his phone once, twice, three times, Ezekiel gets up from his spot on the grass up against a tree. 3:10. That gives him 50 minutes precisely to make it home on time. His house is 45 minutes away by foot. So by proxy, he should have around 5 minutes of leeway time. If he walks at a consistent pace, taking into account the moments when he has to cross the street, he should be able to make it back home at exactly 4:00. Excellent.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Ezekiel counts his steps on the hot pavement below his feet. He's always found comfort in repetitive sounds such as this. It's useful for when he needs to distract himself. The downside of loneliness is you eventually learn to live inside your own head. Sometimes your head isn't exactly the kindest. Cardoso's head in specific enjoys pointing out every little thing he does wrong. You messed up a math problem. You accidentally talked over someone during conversation. Maybe this is why no one wants to associate with you, hm? God, you worthless piece of shit. Just because you have good grades doesn't mean you're a good pers—

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The nature on the way home is quite pretty, he thinks. The flowers are blooming, and they look especially beautiful today of all days. He momentarily considers stopping to pick one, before realizing he must stick to his strict schedule. Right. That reminds him to check his phone for the time. 3:17. He has been walking for 7 minutes, he notes. 

Brushing a brunette lock of hair out of his face, he continues to count his steps as he walks home.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

His counting is momentarily stopped short as a more prevalent sound catches his attention. Ah.

Children. He's never been particularly fond of them. They're loud and ungrateful, but most importantly they are incredibly unpredictable. The highschooler pauses his leisurely stroll across the bridge under his feet in-order to approach the side and briefly observe the kids splashing around in the water below. 

They seem as if they're having fun, hm. Well, he doesn't particularly blame them. It's a nice day out, and the water below seems ideal to play in; despite how deep it might look.  
He glances down at his phone screen yet again to check the time. 3:20. He has been standing here for 3 minutes. Precisely 40 minutes until it is 4:00 pm. Precisely 40 minutes until he will be standing in the doorway to his home.

...That is, unless.

Unless? Unless what??

...

.....Turning off his phone, he leans over the side of the bridge as he peers down into the water below. Think about this logically, Cardoso. What are you doing.

You should jump in.

What?

No. No, he shouldn't. That doesn't make any logical sense. If he were to jump in, he wouldn't have enough time to make it home at exactly 4:00 pm sharp.

If you jumped in, you wouldn't have to make it home at exactly 4:00 pm sharp. You wouldn't have to worry about upholding grades. You wouldn't have to worry about being alone anymore. You wouldn't have to worry about anything. It's the optimal solution.

...That does make sense, he supposes. 

3:21. One minute. He has one minute to decide whether he should go through with this sudden crazy plan that had formulated in his head, or continue walking home.

You wouldn't have to worry about anything. 

This is an enticing argument, but.......

...a feeling in his gut. A really, really bad feeling in his gut tells him not to do this. 

In one swift motion, Cardoso pushes that gut feeling aside and drops his backpack on the ground below him as he carefully climbs up on the edge of the bridge. Thirty seconds.

Staring into the murky depths below, he casts a quick gaze over at the children playing in the water a good several feet away from where he would fall.

He envies that. He envies having someone to enjoy your time with. He envies having someone to talk to or someone to mess around with. Maybe life would be so much easier if his only friends weren't some goddamn sheets of paper with words on them folded together in a specific way as to convey information. Books can't talk back. 

Ezekiel checks his phone. 3:22.  
And thus, Cardoso takes a deep breath.

You won't have to worry about anything, huh. God, he hopes that's true.

After only a moment's hesitation, he jumps.


End file.
